


Ghosts

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: Home is Not a Place [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, John Watson's Dad, M/M, Past Character Death, Post-Season/Series 04, TFP doesn't exist, past emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 12:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12582200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: “My dad’s buried around here somewhere.”Sherlock blinks and stops scrolling.  “Here as in this county, or here as in…?”  He nods his head toward the small churchyard across the street.“Yeah.  ‘Here’ here, as in—in there—somewhere…”He pockets his phone, and stares intently at John’s furrowed brow and stiff posture, at the way something behind his eyes has shifted making him look impossibly young, and vulnerable.“I’ve never been.  Didn’t go to the funeral.  He moved up here a few years after I went to uni.  He was alone.  Didn’t live long after that.  I was studying at Barts.  Couldn’t be bothered to come out for it.  Harry went—for mum, she said.  I couldn’t.  She still doesn’t let me live that down…”“Oh.”John is staring across the road at the quiet graves, tilting and golden in the Autumn evening light.  “You know what, do you mind actually?  I might just…”“No, of course.  It’s fine.”





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> This is Part 3 of the 'Home is Not a Place' series.  
> John's dad is long dead in this, but his spirit still lingers (figuratively).

The village in Northamptonshire is nondescript, unremarkable, high street a waste of time.Add to that the fact that it had been nothing but a dead end where their case was concerned, and Sherlock is so bored, he’s already forgotten the place’s name. 

Instead, he’s glued to the small, glowing screen of his mobile phone, as he follows blindly at John’s heel.Twitter’s a lark.Some political scandal.Everyone with their pants in a knot.It’s funny even if it is a tad pathetic.He grins with smug satisfaction at the thought of all the overtime Mycroft will no doubt be putting in. 

He’s so engrossed, that he nearly trips over John when he stops short in the middle of the sidewalk.

“My dad’s buried around here somewhere.”

Sherlock blinks and stops scrolling.“Here as in this county, or here as in…?”He nods his head toward the small churchyard across the street.

“Yeah.‘Here’ here, as in—in there—somewhere…” 

He pockets his phone, and stares intently at John’s furrowed brow and stiff posture, at the way something behind his eyes has shifted making him look impossibly young, and vulnerable. 

“I’ve never been.Didn’t go to the funeral.He moved up here a few years after I went to uni.He was alone.Didn’t live long after that.I was studying at Barts.Couldn’t be bothered to come out for it.Harry went—for mum, she said.I couldn’t.She still doesn’t let me live that down…”

“Oh.”

John is staring across the road at the quiet graves, tilting and golden in the Autumn evening light.“You know what, do you mind actually?I might just…”

“No, of course.It’s fine.”

When John doesn’t move, Sherlock steps off the kerb first.John follows.They pass through the rusted gates, and stroll down the first row of graves in silence.There are birds singing in the hedgerows, and the hum of the occasional car passing by on the narrow street just the other side.

“Don’t know where he is.”

“Name?”

“Thought you’d have deduced that by now.”

“Hamish?”

Sherlock sees John blink up at him in his periphery.“Close. It’s James, actually.”John looks away, out over the rows they have yet to visit.“James William Watson.”

They reach the end of the first row, turn, keep walking.“These are quite old, I believe the newer plots may be near the back.”

“Mmm…”John makes no move to stray from their current course.“This isn’t what I pictured. Thought it would be more bleak, I guess.Less—pastoral.I hadn’t spoken to him in years.Guess I didn’t know this was the kind of place he’d ended up.I always pictured him rotting away in some seedy suburb, some old, musty flat.Or maybe I just hoped he was.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

They’re halfway through the rows now.The air is cooling, but the sun is still warm.John walks close to him, close enough that their hands brush now and again. 

It’s what they are now—comfortable, intimate, family of a kind.In the privacy of their shared flat, John touches him whenever he feels like it.He doesn’t hold back.Once or twice, when nights had been hard, he had even asked to sleep in Sherlock’s bed, though he was always gone when Sherlock woke in the morning.They are the sorts of touches and interactions that sit on the border between friendship, family, and something more, something Sherlock has no words or experience to accurately define.

“Oh.”John stops.“I recognise that tree.Harry took photos.I think—I think it’s over there.”

He sets off at a good pace, and Sherlock falls in behind, takes in the stiff, military set of John’s shoulders, the slight roll to his gait, the phantom of a limp that only ever manifests when John is faced with the ghost of his father.Sherlock has never mentioned this, of course, some things are for John to discover on his own.But, it’s back now, and Sherlock takes personal note, files it away in the wing of his mind filled to brimming with John.

He sees the moment John finds the grave marker in question.He stops dead so suddenly he reels a little.Sherlock picks up his own pace, and reaches his side in three quick strides.

The stone is newer than some of the others around it.But still, it’s been over two decades; there is a weathered and slightly neglected look to it.No bright flowers, no tiny mementos.It stands cold and alone. 

John stares.“Mum didn’t want to be buried beside him.Don’t blame her.”

There are no words for things like this.Sherlock knows enough to know that.And John is not a man of words, anyway.It’s not what he needs.

Sherlock shifts his weight, a little, lets his arm press against John’s.It’s something at least.An anchor in the midst of this sea of memory he can only assume John had no intention of visiting today.

John is tense.It’s evident even in his voice when he finally speaks again.“He’d have hated what I’ve become.” 

Sherlock glances over.He can’t help himself, but John just continues to gaze down at the headstone, eyes cold, lips pressed tight.“He’d have been ashamed that I invalided out of the army.He’d be disappointed that I’d wasted my education, wasn’t doing anything but locum work.He’d judge me about that bloody mess of a marriage.”He huffs bitterly.“As if he’s one to talk.”

“None of those things were your fault, John.”

John huffs again, pulls away and looks up at him briefly with a forced, crooked smile.“Doesn’t matter.Wouldn’t matter.To him everything was always my fault.”His voice catches on the last word, and he looks quickly away.

His hands are tight fists at his sides.His sniffs once, and a muscle in his jaw jumps.“He would have been disgusted by this.”

“This?”

“Us.”

Sherlock feels his stomach twist.He knows this.He’s known it almost since he and John first met, but it’s the first time he’s ever heard John openly acknowledge it, and as much as there is something rare, and precious in that ‘us’, dropping so casually from John’s lips, it still hurts.That ‘disgusted’, unexpectedly, illogically hurts.He has to swallow down the sudden lump in his throat.

He sees John steal a look in his direction, before looking down at the way Sherlock is worrying the cuff of his coat between his fingers.Sherlock forces himself to stop.

John shuffles toward him, one small step to the side, and then another until Sherlock can feel the warmth of him return.He looks down at Sherlock’s hand, pulls back a little to look over his shoulder, scan the church yard, and then turns back and slips his small, cold hand into Sherlock’s, meshing their fingers, holding on tight.

“I don’t care, you know.I don’t care anymore, what he thinks—thought.”

“Ah, I see…”

John squeezes his hand again.“Do you?”

“I…”Sherlock swallows tight.“I think so, yes.”

“That okay?Us, I mean—being an ‘us’.”

Sherlock feels his eyes fill, spill over without him having any control in the matter.He nods, because he has no idea what else to do. _Of course.Of course it’s okay.It’s always been okay, whether either of them were willing to acknowledge it or not_.

John keeps their hands joined, but looks away again, down at the dirt.“Good.”He scuffs his toe against it a little, and then harder, kicking up a clod that hits the headstone hard and leaves a mark.“Fuck him anyway.He was never happy, and I’ve been following in his footsteps for too long already.”

John slides his thumb once over the back of Sherlock’s.“Let’s get out of here, okay.There’s nothing more I need here.”

Sherlock nods.“Alright.”

John squeezes his hand one last time, before pulling away, and stuffing both his hands in his pockets. 

Sherlock turns and moves to leave first.He needs time to gather himself, to try to piece together what any of it means.He desperately needs space, but they are miles from home, and sharing a hotel room, and none of that is likely forthcoming.

“Sherlock…”

He stops, but doesn’t turn around.

“It doesn’t have to change things, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Not worried.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Yes, well I…”He’s back to fiddling with his sleeve.“I’ve not—done this—ever.I’m not sure—I’m not sure I know what I’m meant to do.”

“Yeah?Well—you and me both then.”

He does turn at that, frowns.“Sorry?”

John holds his gaze this time.Something’s changed in just the last few seconds, but Sherlock can’t tell what.“Have you ever seen me have anything close to what you would consider a ‘functional’ relationship?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.Exactly.”John grins weakly.

Sherlock smiles back, before sobering again.“You understand what I meant, though?”

“Yeah…It’s fine. We’ll figure it out.I just—I wanted you to know that it’s how I see it now, how I see us. 

“I don’t know what that’s going to change any more than you do.I just know…Well, I know that I _hope_ that we mean something to each other.I mean, I know we do. We do.You do mean something to me, but what I’m trying to say is…Christ!”He rakes a hand through his hair, and turns his eyes heavenward for a moment.“See!I’m pants at this.”

Sherlock smiles, fond.“Maybe, it doesn’t need defining.Maybe we should just let it become whatever it’s becoming.”

John looks relieved.“Yeah?Yeah.Okay.”

They smile at one another for a heartbeat, let the tension fade in the gathering dusk.

“Dinner?”

John’s grin spreads.“Starving.”

“There’s a nice little place two streets over.Seemed promising.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm.They make their own noodles in house, and the owner’s from Bangkok.”

John’s eyes widen a little.“Not going to ask you how you know that.”

“They had their menu posted when we walked by earlier.It said so.”

John laughs, and Sherlock’s heart sings.

Them.Here.Laughing so easily together.Ghosts left behind in the church yard where they belong…What could be better?

Nothing. 

Nothing at all.


End file.
